Grandson
by LectorElise
Summary: Nine year old boys who can follow Batman night after night without being caught are no common thing. And Ra's al Ghul has never been one to let an opportunity pass. Welcome to the family, Grandson.
1. What child is this?

"Who is that?" Ra's paused the video feed, indicating a small shadow caught darting after the detective into the Gotham night.

The operative stopped his report to stare at the screen. "The Drake boy, I think."

"Who?" Ra's asked. He fixed the man with a heavy stare.

"Timothy Drake, master. A Gotham native. He seems to stalk the bat as a hobby." The operative swallowed. "Nobody of any importance."

"He successfully follows the detective," Ra's said flatly. "I should have been notified of this immediately."

The operative swallowed again. "Of course, Master. My mistake. I'll have a portfolio done as soon as possible."

True to his word, the operative had a dossier in Ra's hands by the next day. It was through enough that Ra's was considering his failure pass without punishment.

Ra's examined the dossier with care. It contained Timothy's school records, his medical records, the tax returns of his parents, their travel plans, the payroll of the household staff.

The picture it painted was interesting. The elder Drakes were out of the country thirty-seven weeks out of every fifty-two. Meanwhile, their son was achieving a blemish-less school record, and a medical record marked by persistent concerns over failure to thrive. Nothing that explained how an untrained nine year old could possibly shadow the detective so persistently. More information would be needed.

If the pattern present in the payroll records continued, the housekeeper would be fired some time in the next six months. Once that occurred, it would be simple enough to insert on of the league's agents. From there, the question of Timothy Drake would be answered easily enough.

()()()

"Hello, Master." The Drake's new housekeeper greeted quietly. She bit her lip. "Timothy's in the kitchen. Please be gentle with him. He's…fragile, Sir."

"I will keep that in mind," Ra's promised. It was a harmless concession. He made his way into the brightly lit, anti-septic room. Timothy was seated at a small table hidden away in the far corner, a few sheets of paper spread out in front of him, and an untouched sandwich on at plate at his elbow. Ra's sat down in the chair opposite him.

"Hello, Timothy," He greeted. The boy looked up at him, face blank for several moments before he summoned up a careful imitation of a polite smile.

"Hello, Sir," Timothy greeted back. "Are you Mr. Al Ghul? Mrs. Margaret said he'd be visiting today."

"I am." Ra's smiled at the boy, oddly charmed by the pleased blush that produced. "I came to talk about Bruce Wayne."

A split second of panic crossed the boy's face before he smothered it. So he did know. Clever boy.

"Any particular reason for the topic, Sir?" Ra's chuckled, and tilted the boy's chin so he could look Ra's in the eyes.

"I'm an associate of Batman's," he reassured. Not entirely a lie.

Timothy relaxed, tension dropping out of his thin shoulders. "Oh. Where did I mess up?"

"You are young yet. Your performance is exemplary for somebody your age."

"Thank you." Timothy blushed bright red, and looked down at the table. "Is there a reason you came?"

Ra's nodded. "I need to know how you discovered the detective's identity. Could you tell me that, Timothy?"

"I, um." Timothy blushed even harder. "I'm a fan of Robin's civilian identity. I recognized his technique in a newscast." Ra's raised an eyebrow. Unexpected. And intelligent. Few of those under his command would have thought of it.

"Very clever, Timothy." That coaxed a small smile out of the boy. For the next half-hour, they talked, covering a range of topics from advanced mathematics to world events. Presented with a little attention, Timothy was positively eager to please. Such a charming boy.

Ra's excused himself, promising to return again soon for a follow-up visit. Timothy couldn't hide his pleasure at the news. That was the last bit evidence Ra's needed that his decision was correct.

"Mix this into his evening meal," Ra's instructed the housekeeper, handing her a container of powdered sedative. "It should take effect within an hour. When he is asleep, contact me for pick-up."


	2. Welcome to the family

His daughter, for all her uses, has a regrettable tendency to become emotionally attached. Her love for Damian threatens to interfere with his plans for the child. A boy with the Detective's blood is too useful to waste on the trappings of a 'normal' childhood.

Nonetheless, it is unwise to simply ignore his daughter's objections. Talia could be a source of great difficulty if she wished. She could not be allowed to simply raise Damian as she wished. But a surrogate would allow her to displace her maternal feelings on a harmless subject of her affections. Which was where the boy came in.

Timothy Drake was nine years old, and so very clever. He commanded the loyalty of lesser men, with neither the boy's caution nor intelligence. To have discovered the detective's civilian identity was a laudable feat, let alone managed to observe him unnoticed. He was wasted as his parents' heir. They did not know the potential they had in their child, and would squander it.

Ra's smiled down at the sleeping child. He was a beautiful boy, and promised to grow into a handsome adult. And he bore the detective's coloring. Damian's coloring. Nobody would doubt that they were siblings.

He reached up to adjust the flow rate on the IV. Some things should be handled personally. Within a few minutes, Timothy's breathing roughened, an unhealthy flush rising across his face. He whimpered in his sleep, and trashed weakly.

"Welcome to the family, grandson."


	3. Lessons

Timothy studied the book with hungry eyes, hands behind his back in effort not to touch. Ra's smiled indulgently.

"What does it say, Grandfather?" Timothy asked. Ra's picked up the ancient Quran, and gestured at Timothy to join him at the table.

"A Book revealed unto thee, So let thy heart be oppressed no more by any difficulty on that account, that with it thou mightest warn and teach," Ra's translated. "The second verse of Surat Al-'A`rāf."

"This is what I'm studying?" Timothy looked at Ra's hopefully.

"This what I will be teaching you with, Grandson," Ra's stroked Timothy's cheek. "You will have your own copy."

"Really? Oh, thank you!" Timothy smiled at Ra's with all his childish affection shining in his eyes. His poor grandson. Far too familiar with deprivation, and far too unaccustomed to indulgence. Ra's would change that.

"Every afternoon," Ra's confirmed. "Come to me for the mid-day meal, and afterwards we'll have your lesson."

()()()

"Grandfather?" Timothy asked hesitantly, stepping out onto the veranda.

"Grandson," Ra's greeted. "Join me." Timothy smiled at the invitation, and sat down besides Ra's at the table.

"What is this?" Timothy examined the offerings carefully, pausing at an unfamiliar dish. He was still adjusting to the change in his diet, made harder on the child by his ignorance of the occurrence.

"Masala stew. You haven't had any since you took ill. It used to be one of your favorite foods," Ra's lied. Timothy considered that, and served himself a small bowlful.

"I'm having trouble with Al-Baqarah," Tim said. He placed his study notebook on the table between them, open to the last page with writing. "Verse twenty. I think I'm missing something?" He glanced up at Ra's in confirmation. Ra's nodded approvingly. Timothy blushed and ducked his head.

"The symbolism underlying the verse is somewhat abstract for a child your age," Ra's agreed. "Lightning had a greater cultural presence at the time this was written."

"Will you explain it to me?" Timothy asked.

"Always," Ra's promised. "Now, though, about lightning in the ancient middle east…"


	4. Family bonding time

Timothy giggled softly. "Dami. Dami, Dami, Dami. Come out and play, Dami!" Damian scowled, his little three year old face scrunched up in displeasure.

"Timmy put down!" Damian demanded. Timothy giggled again and hefted his little brother into his arms.

"Shh. We're playing a game. It's a silent game, Dami. A sneaking game." Timothy tucked Damian closer to his chest, and ducked behind the freestanding bookcase that divided the study. Mother and Grandfather have tea here every other Thursday afternoon. And Mother keeps her books here. The special ones in English, that Timothy's not supposed to read.

"I'm going to put you on my shoulders. Then you pull down the books with paper covers. Blue ones. Okay, Dami?" Timothy asked, looking down at his little brother.

Damian nodded. "Okay, Timmy." Timothy smiled at him, and darted across the room. He edged around the perimeter of the Persian rug- which he knew had motion sensors hidden under the thick weave- and pressed up against the built in bookcases that lined the back wall.

"Ready?" Timothy whispered, "On three…Two…"

"One," Mother said laughing, and lifted Damian from his shoulders. "Very clever, love. But you overlooked a few things."

"Sorry," Timothy said, without a trace of sincerity. Mother shook her head and combed his bangs out of his eyes.

"You've got a ways to go before you get past me." She shifted Damian to her hip, and tucked him against her side with her free arm. "Damian has lessons, and you, my darling little spy, need a nap."

"I'm almost seven!"

Mother tapped him on the forehead. "And you've been sick until recently. No complaints."

"Yes, Mother," Timothy sighed.


	5. Rehearsal

At Ra's' side, Timothy bounced on the heels of his patent leather shoes. The effect, combined with a crisp white blazer, knee-high grey socks and the swish of his knee length plaid skirt, was both unremarkable and endearing. Several passersby stop to admire briefly, but otherwise ignored the little girl and the older man accompanying her as they waited for the light to change.

"-access the grid would be possible, but it'd be easier to acquire a signal preemption device. From there, it's just a matter of timing," Timothy said quietly, watching the busy four-way with a professional's cool eye. He smiled brightly at an older women who stops to coo over Ra's' 'pretty little girl, how old are you now?"

"Nine, ma'am," Timothy answered, ducking away to hide behind Ra's' leg as if shy. Ra's chuckled and cupped the back of Tim's neck, parental and possessive. They crossed at the walk, Timothy doing a serviceable imitation of a little girl's skip before darting back to Ra's side.

"How many guards?" Ra's asked. Timothy bit his lip, turned it into a pout at the last moment.

"Four public. Another two conspicuously discrete. Maybe three in the crowd?" Timothy looked up at Ra's through his eyelashes.

"Five," Ra's corrected, guiding them into the metro station. "Second row of people at the two crosswise corners. Point them out for me when we get to the second level."

"Kay," Timothy agreed, smiling shyly at the couple who had come up behind them suddenly. They reached the open air platform, and Timothy immediately rushed up to the guard rail overlooking the street they'd just came from.

"Look, Daddy," He cooed. "You can see them!" While he pointed at the approaching parade, he gestured with his left hand to where the two final guards were. Several commuters waiting for the train smiled at Timothy's enthusiasm.

"So you can," Ra's agreed. "What do you want to see most?"

Timothy grinned. "The finale, silly!" He beat out a restless pattern on the wooden rail in Morse code. _It's supposed to be explosive._

Ra's allowed himself a single proud smile, and leaned against the rail to observe his grandson's work.


	6. Raised by Savages

Somebody stepped out of the shadows of the cave, interrupting the frozen tableau of Damian's thwarted attack on Robin. Batman, Robin, and Red Hood all stiffened, redirecting their weapons toward the boy.

The demon brat, on the other hand, dropped his sword in shock.

"Damian. al. Ghul." The boy ground out, each syllable enunciated fully. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" And Damian- assassin trained, violent, bratty Damian- flinched.

"…Hi, Timothy," Damian said meekly. _What. The. Fucking. Hell._ Jason turned and looked at the Replacement. She shrugged, bewildered as he was.

"Don't even_ try_, Damian." With each word, Timothy stepped closer to Damian, who looked progressively more guilty and uncomfortable.

"You're mad," Damian said in a small voice, looking like the ten-year-old he actually was.

"Mad? Oh no, little brother, I passed _mad_ fifteen minutes ago," Bruce's eyes snapped onto Timothy- the brat's brother? Jason sent up a small prayer for that not to be true. "Right now, I'm furious."

Damian hunched his shoulders, huddling in on himself. "Sorry."

"It's not me you have to apologize to." Timothy put his hand between Damian's shoulders, and marched him up to Steph. "Now: I'm sorry for acting like I was raised by bloodthirsty savages. I won't do it again." He shook Damian by the shoulder when he hesitated.

"I'msorryItriedtokillyou," Damian muttered quickly. Timothy raised an eyebrow. "I won't do it again."

"I can't believe you behaved like this," Timothy said, voice quieter, and marked by disappointment. "I thought you knew better." Jason turned away from the two, feeling weirdly like he'd been intruding on something much more intimate than one sibling scolding another. From the looks on Steph and B's faces, they were getting the same vibe.

When he risked a look back, Timothy was kneeling, hugging his little brother. The brat was clutching at one of his brother's sleeves, face inches from Timothy's. They did look similar. Fuck. At least this one had some ethics.


	7. Civilian Son

"This was…not exactly the circumstances that I wanted to meet you in." Timothy fiddles with the hem of the oversized dress shirt Dick had lent him. The boy was practically drowning in it. Damian had inherited the promise of Bruce's build, but Timothy is all Talia, from the lean lines of his body to the delicate curl of his hand as he brushes stray bangs out of his eyes.

All Talia but for the uncertain vulnerability of his gaze as he carefully _didn't_ look at Bruce. He lacked Damian's homicidal certainty and Talia's sleek assurance. He was acting like he- Bruce laughs at himself. Like he's fourteen, and meeting his father for the first time. Like Bruce would expect any civilian to react, odd only in context of his heritage.

It lets him smile at the boy. "I'm grateful for your intervention, though," Bruce tells him, watching the praise ease some of the tension tying up Timothy's shoulders.

"Damian really should have known better. I don't know what got into him," Timothy sighs and shakes his head. "I will never understand what goes on in my family's head when they kill."

"You weren't trained?" Bruce forces himself to be calm. He already knew Talia and Ra's were murders, and had suspected Damian was one as well. Why wasn't Timothy?

"I was." Timothy smiles briefly. "Till I was four. Then I caught a strain of virus-resistant pneumonia, right around the time Mother was pregnant with Damian. It devastated my immune system. I spent the next two and a half years sick as a dog with every disease that got within a thousand miles of me. By the time I wasn't at risk of dying every other week, Damian had been declared heir."

()()()

Timothy ends up staying. It's never really decided, so much as belatedly recognized. He sleeps in Damian's room the first few weeks, living out a carry-on sized suitcase, working his way through the manor's library, and coaching his little brother on interacting with other people who _aren't_ targets or fellow assassins.

"Hey," Dick asks at breakfast, three weeks after Timothy's arrival, "Why aren't you attending school, Timmy?"

Timothy blinks at the question, visibly baffled. He snuck a look at Damian, obviously asking for help. Damian ignores him, still angry over the scolding he got last night for pulling out a sword during patrol.

"I, ah," Timothy trails off, chewing on his lip. Damian rolls his eyes and steals the scrambled eggs off his brother's plate.

"-tt-. My brother took his A-levels last year, stupid. Why would he waste his time in-" Damian falls silent as Timothy elbows in the ribs.

"Mother thought I should have some recognizable credentials," Timothy says quietly, blushing and glaring at his brother. "Since I'm not going to be, well, you know. In case something happened."

"A fine accomplishment, Master Timothy," Alfred comments. "May I inquire as to what subjects you tested on?"

"Well, I did General Studies, obviously, and Arabic. And the usuals- Chemistry, Maths, Language and Literature, History, Applied Science." Tim glances up at Alfred through his bangs cautiously. Alfred nods his encouragement. "Plus World Development, Photography, and Psychology. I passed all of them, though not as well as I would have liked for some."

Jason whistles. "Damn, Tim. Smart little thing, aren't you?" Tim's fading blush flames back to life, a pleased smile accompanying it.

"Of course he is. Smarter than _you_, Todd," Damian snipes. Bruce hides his amusement at the childish argument that erupted between Jason and his youngest son, He looks over at Tim, who is hiding his face in his hands and muttering darkly about frogs in his brother's bed. Bruce thinks he's going to like having a civilian in the family.


	8. Rehearsal Redux

Tim studied the purple knit sweatshirt, evaluating whether the drape could convincingly minimize the breadth of his shoulders. Puberty had been kind in regards to this particular pastime, but it had still left him with signs of masculinity that needed disguising.

He set down the sweatshirt and trailed down the floor towards a dark blue wool poncho. He tossed it in his basket along with the red sweater, embroidered top, and black undershirts he had grabbed earlier.

Western clothing was always a difficult sell. Headscarves and modest dress forgave a multitude of sins. But his new identity couldn't be Muslim, more's the pity. The Islamic population of Gotham was roughly two point five percent of the whole, making a Muslim girl far too noticeable.

Tim browsed through the clearance rack for an appropriate pants, the new identity slowly shaping itself as options were considered and discarded. Nothing with holes or other purposeful distressing. No slacks, no dress pants. He took a pair of cargo pants a size too big, a pair of red jeans, and a pair of black pants with flounces down one leg. Maybe. He threw it into the basket, and headed for the cash register.

"My little sister's stuff got lost by the airline," Tim lied easily when the cashier raised her eyebrows at his purchases. He shifted his accent a bit, more New Yorker than Gothamite "And she's totally wiped from the flight." The cashier winced obligingly.

"Sucks," She agreed, folding the pants and stuffing them into a goodwill bag. Tim listened to her speech carefully, filing it away for later reference. "Any luck getting it back?"

Tim snorted and rolled his eyes. "They say they'll get it to us in a week. I'm not holding my breath." The cashier snickered at that.

"Good luck then, dude. Hopefully your sis won't get totally screwed over." She winked at him, and tossed a few bracelets on the counter into the bag.

"Hope springs eternal, you know?" Tim grinned at her, blowing a theatrical kiss her way on his way out the door.

"You done?" Jason asked, stubbing out his cigarette. Tim smiled at him, ad-hoc persona burning off like mist in morning sunlight.

"I think so," Tim said, trailing after Jason on the way to the beat-up van that accompanied their cover. "How badly does Father need this information? I got the impression he wasn't happy asking me to help."

Jason unlocked the van and helped Tim up the high step before getting in himself. "Pretty bad. The gang's only looking for female couriers, and pretty bird's never been good at acting."

Jason smirked. "And me and Dickie have been way too built for cross-dressing for years, thank-fucking-god."

"Damian's not going to be happy with that particular Robin duty," Tim commented. He pictured his little brother's reaction to being asked to pass, and giggled.

"You have an evil mind, little red. I like it." Jason reached out and ruffled Tim's hair before starting the car.

"Said the kettle," Tim mock-scowled at Jason. Jason flipped him off, and Tim broke down into giggles again.

()()()

The new identity's small wardrobe lay spread out on the motel's bed before Tim- eclectic pieces, that made the various little tricks of passing look like fashion statements. He had a nice pair of boots that coded feminine to American eyes, and a serviceable b-cup bra with built in false breasts, which thankfully took care of most of the basics. A few pairs of 'boy-briefs' style underwear in plain colors took care of the rest.

Tim considered himself in the mirror, clad only in a pair of black cotton underwear, the false bra, and a black undershirt over that.

Amelia, he summoned up. Her name was Amelia Jones, sixteen years old, child of parents clinging to middle-class respectability by their finger tips. A proud girl, an independent one, with few friends, and far too many tormenters who targeted her whenever she bothered showing up to school. She'd given up on the straight and narrow, and had settled for the path of the slightly crooked and broad-minded.

She'd been in a few fights, wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty for a bit of pocket money. She'd been running drugs and messages between gangs in her hometown of New York since she was thirteen, and was looking for similar employment now that she'd been forcibly relocated to Gotham.

Amelia opened her eyes, and smiled slyly. It was new day, full of opportunities to make some money, and get a sense of Gotham's underworld. She shucked on a pair of tan cargo pants, loading the pockets with change for the arcade, some hard candy, a few pens and a tiny notebook. She bounced her butterfly knife in her palm consideringly, and set it down on the nightstand. She'd heard some nasty things about Gotham- it was probably worth taking.

She held up the embroidered top, and shoved it back into her overnight bag with a sigh. Nothing too pretty today- everybody knew what happened to a pretty girl who didn't have a reputation or a man to protect her. She pulled on her hooded poncho instead, tucking the butterfly knife into the front pocket.

A quick dash of gel spiked up her black hair, and she made a mental note to cut it soon- it was getting dangerously close to girly-looking, and that was _so_ not her scene. She toed on her boots- the nice ones she'd swiped from a hoity-toity department store back in New York. She really needed to get some new docs, but these would do. For now, anyway.

Was there enough time to go her nails?

"Oy! 'Me-li, are you done _primping_ yet?" Jay Malone hollered, knocking irritably at her door. Amelia rolled her eyes. _Boys!_ No patience what-so-freaking-ever.

She opened the door in the middle of yet another flurry of knocking, resulting in Jay overbalancing and stumbling into the room.

"Yeah, I'm done Jay. Are you done making an ass of yourself?" She asked, eying the overgrown man-child.

"Hey!" Jay began irritably, before catching a look at her and choking.

"Obviously not," Amelia concluded smugly, prodding Jay with her toe. He winced and scrambled upright.

"fuck, Ti- 'Me-li, you're good at this," Jason said admiringly, slipping out of character for a moment.

"Thanks for noticing, Jason." Tim allowed himself a satisfied smile.

Amelia snapped her fingers. "Come on, you said you'd introduce me to the people worth knowing. Let's _go_ already."


End file.
